


What We Make of A Home

by Myzic



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Fluff, How self-indulgent is this?, Not Beta Read, Other, Painting, he should be allowed to have something he can be bad at!, peter does art!, we die like hyperion mayors, without threat of death, yes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:29:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27677411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myzic/pseuds/Myzic
Summary: Now that he had it in front of him, Peter hadn’t the faintest idea why he thought buying the canvas had been a good idea.He had a small tray of paints beside him, acrylics in lumpy little piles squirted onto a paper plate Peter had found in his pockets.Everything was there, it was all ready for him to start, but he stared at the blank canvas and it reflected all his ideas back at him. What was he supposed to do? The answer was ‘anything,’ he guessed, but what anything? He sat there, paintbrush poised above his palette, grasping for ideas.
Relationships: Peter Nureyev & Rita, Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel
Comments: 20
Kudos: 52





	What We Make of A Home

The tip of his brand new paintbrush was glossy, its fine caramel hairs smooth in their slope and Peter held it carefully, staring blankly at the canvas in front of him.

It had been an impulse purchase. Unusual in two ways, the first being that it was an actual purchase— one he’d made with his own creds— and second in that it was rather big. Quite dissimilar from the usual cosmetic product or knickknack he might take a fancy to. 

Looking at it now, it was very large, wasn’t it? Hardly the kind of thing you could bring with you just anywhere. Too cumbersome to transport easily, and definitely not the sort of object you could travel with. Lugging it back to the Ruby 7 before any of the crew could see and slipping it into his room had been as troublesome as he’d imagined it to be.

Now that he had it in front of him, Peter hadn’t the faintest idea why he thought buying it had been a good idea. 

He had a small tray of paints beside him, acrylics in little lumpy piles squirted onto a paper plate Peter had found in his pockets. 

Everything was there, it was all ready for him to start, but he stared at the blank canvas and it reflected all his ideas back at him. What was he supposed to do? The answer was ‘anything,’ he guessed, but  _ what  _ anything? He sat there, paintbrush poised above his palette, grasping for ideas.

Maybe he could paint something about his past— he’d seen so much, after all, been to so many beautiful places. Peter could paint Brahma, the brief glimpse he’d gotten of the town square as he remembered it, light and yellow and bright. But that wasn’t the first colour that came to mind when he thought of it, was it? It was red in his memory, so very very red.

Absolutely not.

It could be something he knew. Something he could see with perfect clarity behind his eyelids, as intimate and familiar as his own face— more, even. Peter pictured Juno, his beaming smile, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed and he could see it so clearly.

But this was his first attempt at using this brush and he didn’t think he would be able to burn the results of his efforts fast enough if he got something as precious as Juno’s face wrong. Simpler then.

It was so much easier when he was doodling, scribbling whatever came into his mind onto the thin paper of a receipt. What did he usually draw? A swingset, tall glittering buildings, unfurling flowers. 

That was it. Easy enough to be good practice, but not so childish as to result in something you might avert your eyes from as it hung from the wall. Peter dipped his brush into the red paint at his side and drew it over the canvas, enjoying the slug-like trail of colour he smeared. Right now, he painted in paint instead of blood and it felt good, it felt… 

Exciting.

Peter was a thief who enjoyed his work, and when he turned the knob of a safe, or walked away from a target, dazzled and star-struck in his wake, there was always that little smile of satisfaction he let himself have. He was allowed to have pride in a job well done.

Now, Nureyev found himself grinning the entire time he worked, dabbing the curved petals of a magenta flower. It was exhilarating, as the tip of his brush left streaks over the canvas, and Peter could see the image in his mind mapped out in front of him. He carefully lifted his brush from the crescent curve of a petal. It was… done. He could add a few things to the leaves of the rose, blend the fading pink into the white outline of the dahlia a bit better perhaps, but for the most part, it was done.

He must have been sitting here for hours, doing nothing but painting with a single-minded purpose he thought he’d only ever be able to achieve when planning. 

Peter took a step back— mentally, not physically— and looked at the painting in its entirety. The roses were there as he had placed them, and each fibre in the leaves as he remembered the strokes of his brush dipped in their green. But now, for some reason, it was undeniably amateur, much more so than he’d realized when he’d been working on it.

The result of his efforts left him more displeased than the hours of excited work might have led him to believe, and looking at it now, he almost resented it for that. But unlike his own thoughts, physical objects were much easier to put out of mind so long as you didn’t see them. Peter resolved to store it away as soon as the paint had dried.

~

He didn’t exactly forget about his painting. Nureyev just… put it away. Literally, in his closet, which is where Juno found it the next time he was perusing Nureyev’s piles of clothing, searching for a skirt he’d left behind the last time they’d shared a bed.

“Hey, Nureyev what’s this?” Peter glanced up to see Juno with his painting, arms straight as they held it away from him and he squinted, “I didn’t know you painted.”

“It’s a recent development, one I took up rather impulsively,” he very consciously did not bite his lip, as he had removed any and all signifying habits years back. The urge to do so rose up within him anyway. 

Peter put down his book, a fascinating retelling of the execution of the third ambassador of Panacea, attention thoroughly diverted. 

He wanted to know what Juno thought of his piece, desperately wanted to ask while also feeling the intense desire to rip it from his hands and throw it back into the dark closet where it may never see the light of the ship’s day cycle again.

“Sure. Been feeling a little stir-crazy too, picking up a hobby’s probably a good idea— at least having something to do might stop me from bouncing off the walls.” 

“You could achieve the same effect, dear, by drinking less caffeine.” He sat on the edge of the bed now, having unconsciously moved toward Juno. Peter leaned back carefully from his eager position, settling a hand on the cushions casually as he relaxed his posture.

“Haha,” Juno said wryly. “Funny how with all that dreaming about the stars I never really factored in the commute time.” He cocked his head slightly, slowly turning the canvas in a way that did not bode well for Peter’s artistic skills. “What… what were you going for?”

“Flowers,” he answered succinctly, unwilling to share more about his inner process as his love squinted— and really did he have to narrow his eye  _ that  _ much— at its frame.

He nodded unconvincingly and Peter snorted at the look on his face, containing himself only when Juno shot him a look of fond grumpiness, frowning with the corners of his mouth that tilted in a way that suggested a suppressed smile.

“Yeah,” Juno gave up with a visible huff that deflated his chest. “I don’t get it. It is nice though,” he tacked on, “and not getting it doesn’t mean I don’t like it.”

“Juno, you don’t have to placate me to spare my feelings,” Nureyev waved his hand in the air lazily, the picture of nonchalance he prayed Juno would not see through just this one time,  _ please _ . “I assure you they won’t be hurt if you dislike my only attempt at merely a passing fancy.” 

“What? I’m not lying to you about liking your painting,” a brief look of confusion crossed his face before it warped into something more teasing. “Also, I have never spared someone’s feelings my opinion in my life and there’s at least three gangs who can attest to that. And the greater population of Hyperion as a whole,” he said, mimicking a brief offense and Peter laughed “But really, I like the roses.”

“I thought you couldn’t tell what they were?”

“Well at a second glance—” Peter lifted his eyebrows and Juno cut himself off partway through, “Yeah, you said ‘flowers’ and the red is pretty distinctive, so.”

“At least you got part of it right, I suppose— though fifty percent is only barely a passing grade, love,” He couldn’t help the brief well of disappointment that flooded him, rushing in to fill the hollows in his chest. Not that he had been expecting much— nothing actually, seeing as he’d hidden the thing with the express desire of no one ever viewing it— especially considering the first time Juno had seen one of his doodles he’d confused it for a murderous conspiracy note.

“There are different flowers in this?”

“Dahlias as well, yes.”

“Hmm. That would have been my… sixth guess,” Juno bobbed his head as he eyed the picture in front of him with newly appraising eyes. “Yep, sixth guess. Definitely.”

Peter slid off the bed with movements too quick to be properly graceful or even passingly casual and went to pull it out of Juno’s hands to chuck it down the fuel incinerator. He moved to grab it, but the detective’s sharp eyes flickered up from the painting, and then the damn thing was flush against his chest, pressed there almost protectively.

“Hey, woah. What’re you gonna do with it?” Juno took a step back, holding the canvas as if it were a small animal Peter intended to cause bodily harm to. 

“I thought I might dispose of it.” he answered honestly, “It doesn’t really serve much practical purpose, and truthfully, I don’t care much for looking at it.” Peter couldn’t help the way his lip wrinkled as he saw the clumsy outline of his poor attempt through the back of the frame.

Juno danced out of reach at his words, painting still held tight in his hands. “Yeeah, no I don’t think so. This is mine now.” he declared, “And there’s no way I’m letting you destroy it.”

“Juno, dear. Love of my life,” Peter reached his hands out expectantly, “Let me rid the world of an abomination. One less stain upon the universe, just.  _ Come _ .  _ On. _ ” His sentence turned strained as Juno blundered around him unexpectedly, dodging Peter’s quick fingers that might have been just a little less incentivized than usual.

“Okay, Nureyev, look,” Juno began and Peter could hear him winding up, “whatever you made, even if you think it’s crap, even if you look at it and think ‘this is the shittiest looking thing I’ve ever laid eyes on—’”

“I mean, I don’t like it, but I wouldn’t go so far—”

Juno brushed past his interruption and continued as if though he hadn’t said anything, “It really doesn’t have to be  _ good _ to be  _ worthwhile _ .”

He stopped himself short, train of thought completely thrown off course by Juno’s sentence and the sheer lack of understanding he found himself scrabbling against. “What do you mean it doesn’t have to be good?” he replied, dismayed, “Juno, that’s kind of the whole point, isn’t it? To make something worth your effort?”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

Peter lingered, hesitant to express his lack of understanding— a habit he had formed from years of rapidly changing environments and wrenches thrown into his plans. One could never afford to be ignorant, so one must instead learn to  _ adapt _ .

But this was not a job, and Juno was not a mark, so he forced his question through careful enunciation. “I find we have switched roles, detective, because now I don’t get it. Care to elaborate?

“Look, Nureyev, how did you feel making this?” 

“How did I  _ feel _ ? Why does that change the end result—”

“Did you enjoy it?” Juno watched at him far too knowingly, and Peter fought back the irrational panic of being seen, of being known so truly. “C’mon ignore everything else, just tell me how it felt to make when you were  _ doing _ it. Did it make you happy, or relaxed, or just feel good in general?”

“It… did,” he admitted, and it felt like a confession.

“Then it was worth it,” Juno said simply, and maybe it was to him.

“Just because it made me feel good? For a second?” he kept his voice steady, rational rather than dubious. An arched eyebrow lifting on Juno’s face told him that he had failed to those ends, but he barged ahead anyway. “I don’t call that contentedness, Juno, I believe that categorizes more as short-term satisfaction.”

“No, you know what? I’m trying to tell you that it doesn’t matter what you ended up with, Nureyev. The end result isn’t the important part,” Juno stared at him, obviously waiting for some kind of understanding Peter didn’t know how to provide. “This,” he shook the painting at him, “making this made you feel good for a short period of time, and it’s healthy and it doesn’t hurt anyone which means it was worthwhile. Anything that makes you  _ happy _ is worthwhile.”

“That’s— is that how it works?” he fought the urge to laugh it all off, tell Juno that it wasn’t really worth anything to him and that they should move on to other subject matters. The lady was communicating, or at least trying to with him, and damn if he didn’t want to reciprocate, even if he wasn’t quite sure how to just yet. “In my experience, it’s the quality art that fetches the highest price, Juno, not the most rewarding.”

Juno put a hand to his forehead, and for a second, offense swept over him at the lady’s open frustration. “God, I’m going to sound like an inspirational cat poster.” And then he heard a low grumble that made him want to laugh if not for the burgeoning nervousness still writhing in his stomach. “Look, Nureyev, it’s about the process— the journey— and that sounds really really patronizing, but it’s not supposed to be.”

“Then how is it meant, dear?”

Juno held out the canvas and shook it with every word he spoke as if to emphasize and punctuate his sentence. “Your hobbies don’t have to be productive. The whole point is that they’re what you do when you want to relax. Making this made you happy right?” Nureyev nodded slowly and smiled at the look of satisfied victory that crossed his love’s face. “That’s the  _ only _ thing that matters, okay? Your happiness is the only thing that will ever. matter. To me, and for whatever you make. Your happiness,” he said slowly and purposefully, “is the most important part.”

“I—” Peter felt himself blush, deep from the tips of his toes all the way to his roots. Juno Steel had a way of declaring his love, in his actions, in his words, in the way he clutched something Peter was actually very attached to without letting him destroy it. He hadn’t even needed to say the words and Nureyev already felt like a wreck. “That was a very… beautiful notion.”

Juno shrugged unapologetically, placing down the painting against the wall now that he seemed convinced Peter wouldn’t tear it from his grasp anymore. “I can stand to be poetic every once in a while if it means stopping you from doing something you’ll regret.”

Poetic. If there was one thing worth weaving poetry about it was Juno Steel, and now Peter sat back down hard on the bed, spreading his arms and legs eagle-wide and stretching out in relief as the tension seeped from his fingertips and dissipated into the open air. He laughed and closed his eyes to enjoy the burble of it hitching out of his chest, letting himself get briefly lost in the feeling.

When he opened them again, Juno was propped up on an elbow, staring at him with a grin and such adoring eyes that it took his breath away. “What was that for?” He questioned.

“You’re just… extraordinary. Amazing.” Peter reveled as Juno took his turn to blush, the skin of his cheekbones darkening with the rush of blood. “All those rationalizations I had, I used them like a child’s favourite blanket, and you just,” he threw a hand out at the painting leaning against the wall, “verbally slapped it right out of my hands. I feel a little silly.” He admitted.

“It’s… just something I’ve had to learn about myself in the past year, I guess.” Some emotion pulled Juno’s lips up into a grin-grimace before he seemed to inhale and let it fall into the genuine article— a smile so beautiful it had become Peter’s foundation upon which to build a life. “You don’t have to do good to be worthwhile.” He kind of wanted to wring the neck of whoever had put that idea into Juno’s head.

But that was a thought for when he didn’t have Juno in his arms to hold and simply be.

“Juno, I have never met anyone as good as you,” Nureyev told him resolutely. “You may not have to  _ do _ it, but god, if you aren’t  _ good _ then I don’t know what hope there is for the rest of us.” Juno let out a soft  _ pfft _ against his chest.

“I can’t believe you just turned this back on me, Nureyev. Don’t think I didn’t notice that,” he hesitated, and then in a voice so gentle Peter would never have guessed he was capable of it the first time they’d met, said, “but, thanks.”

In the quiet of their shared space, Peter turned Juno’s words over in his mind and pondered how irreconcilable they had seemed not yesterday. Not a few minutes prior. How odd. Something he didn’t have to be perfect at. Didn’t even have to be good at.

Nureyev’s life had always depended on his skills, his ability to ballroom dance, his knowledge of entrepreneurial values, his ability to think on his feet. All were crucial in equal measure because he couldn’t get into that CEO’s bedroom if he couldn’t dance skillfully across a ballroom with a stranger, couldn’t impersonate a galactic startup if he didn’t have the foundational knowledge, couldn’t protect his compatriots if each muscle in his arms had not the strength to wield their weapons.

It was incredibly novel to do something that didn’t require him to be perfect at it in order to not die. He could completely fail to show the sun glinting properly off the windows of a suburban house, and there would be no sudden explosion, no alarms blaring or angry voices starting to tear after him. A new feeling, but not an unwelcome one.

His love’s thoughtful voice broke him out of his thoughts. “I hope you were lying about what you said earlier.”

“Refresh my memory?”

“When you mentioned it being your ‘only attempt.’” Juno raised his fingers endearingly in quotation marks. “I wouldn’t mind seeing more. If you’re up to it, that is.”

He considered it for a second.

“Maybe,” he replied. But the detective had already succeeded in his attempts to convince him.

~

Rita's birthday was as ostentatious and fun an affair they could afford to make with the limited resources they had after a week of traveling from Tylannus to Midas. The few decorations they had put up included bright silver streamers in varying shades Rita’s eyes had lit up upon seeing and an admittedly sad cake that could best be described by the sentiment ‘you tried.’

To be fair to the crew of the Carte Blanche, most of them— including Peter— hadn’t known until it was far too late to pick up any extra items, or presents, for the occasion. This is why the streamers were cut-up strips of thermal blankets and the cake was a little undercooked despite Juno’s best efforts. The look of brief confoundment on his face when he let slip her birthday and was then coerced into a party, spelled out the state of their hacker’s previous ‘parties’ well enough.

At Buddy’s insistence for a party— against his love’s defensive protestations that she would like a stream night just fine— they gathered what they could. Peter’s own efforts resulted in the different colours of streamers, using the highlighters he usually saved for colour-coding his notes on the makeshift materials.

So, all in all, their efforts were the best they could manage given their limited… everything. And to that point, it was hard to feel bad about the lackluster decorations when the intended recipient looked like she just might explode with happiness at any given moment. 

It had ended up as something of a stream night, in the end. An action-based movie with an estranged Outer Rim couple fleeing from civil war and tragically torn apart— the reviews were good and he wouldn’t be surprised to find that part of it was based in fact. The war was fresh in everyone’s minds still, but not so much that epic blockbusters of heavily romanticized retellings weren’t in abundance. 

Eventually, the movie ended and Vespa and Buddy slipped off to their room, Jet off to do whatever he did when he was by himself.

“Ready to go to sleep, babe?” Rita, whose focus had been solely on collecting her presents practically sparkled at Juno’s words and Peter felt her gaze on them as intense as it had been on the stream.

“Go ahead, love,” he murmured back, “I’ll meet you there in a second. I just want to… give Rita my present.” Peter whispered the words. When the whole crew had been gathered, he’d pretended to share Juno’s box of chocolates and assorted snacks for Rita but now that they were alone, away from the others’ eyes, he wanted to give her his real gift.

Juno leaned in to press a quick goodbye kiss to his cheek, as though they wouldn’t see each other in five minutes from now. “Proud of you.” he stated like he hadn’t bowled Peter over in three words and called out to his long-time secretary, “Happy forty-second Birthday, Rita!”

“That’s not right either, Mistah Steel! You oughta stop guessing, especially on a lady’s special day.” He grinned at her, a well-practiced thing of shared jokes and history that Peter could not yet draw out of him.

Nureyev dipped forward, going to pick up some of the kernels of corn they’d missed under the couch, stuck between the long fibers of the carpet. A few seconds passed until he had a small collection of oily popcorn cradled in his palm and he wiped his hands of them into the garbage while Rita looked at him curiously, practically vibrating. So she had heard him. 

Peter sighed and washed his hands quickly of the greasy food before pulling out his canvas from underneath the couch. He had hidden it there earlier this night for this exact purpose. With the dim lights that told him they were firmly entrenched in the Carte Blanche’s night cycle, he couldn’t quite make out the details of his work and felt grateful for it. If he saw it now, he might just change his mind before it left his grasp and it was far too late for that because Rita’s eyes had locked onto it the moment he pulled it out. 

“I have something else for you, Miss Rita,” he said redundantly.

“Ooh, what is it, Mistah Ransom?” She pressed her hands to her cheeks and looked at him with eager eyes, not a hint of judgement for his last-minute addition to her birthday. He couldn’t imagine anything of the sort twinkling in her eyes.

Still, he hesitated. “A painting.” Peter was stalling. He knew it and Rita knew it and if Juno were here he might just have forced Peter to hand it over himself. She looked at him, both eyebrows raised.

His arms shot straight out from him and he handed it to her.

“It’s from that one stream you like, one of my favourites as well, actually. You know that—”

“One scene from the ‘Heirs of the Forest’ where those two girls go off on a quest and the one girl, Enid, is real sciency and ends up helping the otha’ find out who she is and her place in her family despite her lack of knowledge about anything magicy. Yes!” She breathed the plot out in a single breath and then the painting was placed against the arms of the couch and she was rushing forward. Her arms were wrapped around Peter’s mid-torso and it was the warmest embrace he had ever known. “Thank you so much!”

Maybe he should be returning it. He slowly put his hands around her back and her arms were just the right amount of padded to make them both firm and comfy. Peter did his best to return the gesture and he knew it was appreciated from the two gentle pats he felt on his back.

He relinquished first and their outrageously skilled hacker followed suit, the warmth of her arms leaving swaths of his skin oversensitive to the newly cold air that brushed against it. “You’re welcome,” Peter rasped with less composure than he might have been comfortable within the first few weeks of their voyage. “I’m glad you like it.”

“I love it so much!” And then she had it in her hands again, and he was distantly flattered— beyond the part of him that still dwelled in their hug— at how excited she seemed. “I’m gonna treasure it forever, Mistah Ransom, and— oh my god, I love the little doggy you added in the corner, is that a reference to the one adventure where Khalia finds out her famila’ wasn’t a big scary hellhound at all, but a cute puppy just like her inner self!” Rita sighed dramatically.

And for the second time, he was completely blindsided by the hacker. “You… know what I painted?”

Her eyes turned to him again, and when Peter was Rex Glass, he had somehow missed the brightness of her gaze. More the fool was he, getting duller by the day.

“Of course, Mistah Ransom! From one artist to anotha’ I just gotta say I love the way you did the fur on him and his little paw-paws are so CUTE!” 

“My apologies,” The first person who’d seen his drawings had been Juno, and well… of the few he’d seen so far, he had been utterly unable to see Peter’s intentions in any of them, “I was under the impression that my art was a little… indiscernible.”

Rita tucked the painting under her arm and waved off his words with a hand, rolling her eyes in a half-moon. “Oh, Mistah Steel has absolutely no eye for anything abstract. He kinda just does that thing you know where he gets real frustrated if he don’t understand— like when we visited museums he would always make me pull up the artist’s biographical so he could tell what they drew from their life experiences even though I always said that’s no way to enjoy art, Mistah Steel—”

“I never said it was Juno who couldn’t tell what I made.” Peter made a half-hearted attempt to appear less transparent. Not for Juno’s sake in this case, but for his own pride.

She paused blankly, before shooting him a look of such skepticism he shut his mouth instantly. “You didn’t need to. It’s kind of obvious Mistah Ransom, I’m pretty sure everyone knows you two practically live togetha’ now.”

“We all live together.”

“Yeah,” Rita said a little slowly as if trying either to break the news of the second War or, explain something to a small child, “but you two do it the real domesticky kinda way. Like a couple of honeymooners, but for months instead of a few weeks.”

“I—” Peter could feel himself turn a couple of shades redder than his usual skin tone and he was glad once more for the cover of the night keeping its rosier hues concealed. “We’re really not…” Not doing what? It wasn’t as though they weren’t performing the same acts that defined ‘honeymooners’ as she called them. Instead, he focused on the concern that came to the forefront of his mind. “The rest of the crew hasn’t noticed, have they?”

“Y’know, I would love to say that I’m the only one because of how stunningly smart I am, but really, Boss and you ain’t the most subtle, and acting like it’s an achievement wouldn’t really do much as far as compliments go.”

“So everyone thinks…” 

“Yep.” She told him like it was no big deal the frequency of their nightly excursions was known by the only people they had to speak to every day, “And I know you don’t need my approval or anything but I think you’re real good for Mistah Steel. And I think he might be good for you too, not that I really knew you all that well before we started working together, aside from that one time I met you as a Dark Matters agent…” 

Rita kept talking, something about her first impression of him and how she  _ thought _ he might have changed but Peter was lost in one of her earlier sentences. 

Juno made him better, certainly. How could he not? The detective made the world a better place by being in it, made the people around him better with his bubble of sheer will encapsulating them, a stone casting water with its splash. 

_ I think you’re real good for Mistah Steel _ . Peter made Juno happy, this he knew, or at the very least he tried to. But he was ‘good’ for Juno Steel? He, the born-thief and criminal, was good for the lady with the most good in him he’d ever met?

“...but all that was the first time I met you, and… you know, I think I kinda like Mistah Ransom better than Agent Glass.” She cut off his train of thought as her voice filtered back into his awareness, and he forced himself to pay attention. Tuning out while others were speaking was rude, wasn’t it? Especially when they were complimenting you. “You’re more auto splendid. You seem happier, and the real kind where your eyes sorta get shiny and you look like you don’t weigh nothin.’”

“That’s very astute of you, Miss Rita,” he choked out after decoding her unique use of the word ‘authentic.’ She was very observant, the kind of unassuming intelligence you didn’t see coming until your bank account was emptied of your life savings, no evidence to speak of it but the dusty orange fingerprints on a computer miles away from your home.

“Puh-lease, if you’re gonna be my best friend evah’s love of his life, you gotta call me Rita!” 

It struck him in the chest then, how willing she was to include him. How quick Rita was to invite him into her life and welcome him in with open arms. Whom had he had before this year? No one, and now, not only did he have the love of his life but the smartest, nicest hacker he’d ever met. Nureyev pretended not to feel the sticky heaviness that clogged his throat and swallowed.

“Then I insist you stop referring to me by the title ‘Mister.’ As the best friend of the love of my life.” 

“That is so cute Mistah Ransom, but you know that’s not how this works,” She grinned at him triumphantly, “You gotta call me Rita ‘cause that’s what I said I want you to and alsoit’smybirthday, soo.”

“Fine,” Solid point to the hacker. Ransom knew when he was beaten even if Nureyev was the one who had a hard time accepting it. “Rita, then.”

She smiled a toothy grin, pearly white despite the sheer quantity of snacks she consumed and he knew that it was Peter Nureyev who smiled back.

~

The next time he painted something it wasn’t his own decision at all.

Some time, long after he’d made that second attempt, broke his leg, and subsequently had to re-purchase many of his art supplies after the ship crashed, the Captain pulled him aside before one of their family meetings. There was no one there except the two of them, the first to arrive, though he was unsure if Buddy ever actually removed herself from the table throughout the course of the night.

The fact that she had pulled him aside before the rest of the crew arrived meant she wasn’t going for public humiliation, though Captain Aurinko had never been the sort to rely upon such means for respect. She didn’t need to, not with the way she spoke, precise and careful, and enough calm force to stop a room of arguing children cold, gaining their rapt attention immediately. This did mean, however, that it was more likely he was about to be reprimanded, out of sight of the meeting room, and earlier than any of the other’s would be up so as to spare him the previously mentioned public embarrassment.

Nureyev skimmed through everything he’d done in the past week, as they stepped into the long gray halls outside the meeting area, cataloging potential mistakes and preparing an apology. He was the one most likely to be removed from the crew, the least trusted and so, any slip-up on his end that could result in his expulsion from the ship had to be swiftly remedied, and if it could not be fixed, then apologized for, no matter how much remorse he actually felt for his actions. 

The sloped line of her stance didn’t seem one that might result in his dismissal. He took solace in this fact and tried to convince his mind of the same thing.

“As Captain of the crew, I make it my duty to check in on each member of our little family to see if they’re doing alright, especially if stressful events have just occurred. And will occur, I suppose, with our big mission coming up.”

“Yes, of course,” Peter prepared himself for a let-down speech, long and winding. _I cannot allow any irregularities in my crew_ , she would say, or _With as big a mission as the Curemother Prime, I’m afraid your skills and previous… incidents_ _can no longer be ignored_. She would pause politely as she skipped over the word ‘mistakes.’ Ever the diplomatic one, that Buddy Aurinko. 

“But forgive me if I don’t see the point in you pulling me aside to simply ‘check up on me’ as you’ve said. There’s no one up but the two of us.”

“I am curious as to how you’re doing, Pete. Of all our family under my employ, you are the one who’s least likely to show, well, injury or emotional disturbance, you might call it,” The Captain’s attention was no less for the eye hidden behind the flame of her hair, tucked as it was behind her right ear, though this was a lesson he already knew from the detective. “I did think you might appreciate some discretion on this matter, as you are correct— I am not here for an update on your mental well-being.”

“I would like to apologize in advance, Captain.” She was firing him. Absolutely, without doubt, firing him. Peter had never had the experience of a lover or a teacher, or even a parent uttering the words ‘we need to talk,’ and he was finding that now that he was living it, he much preferred not knowing. 

“You do not need to apologize for your privacy. I do wish you were a little more comfortable around us, but I can understand wanting to keep something to yourself,” she told him. “I noticed an addition to Rita’s room. Not a new one, but not something she brought aboard when she first embarked the Carte Blanche. And, if you are up to it, I was hoping to add one of your pieces to my collection as well.”

That. was not being fired. That was about as far from being fired as you could get, aside from receiving a promotion. And… an addition to her collection? Something for the ownership of Buddy Aurinko, arguably one half of the most infamous criminals the universe had ever seen, and she wanted something of his amidst her  _ collection _ . A collection that had likely cycled through some of the most sought after items throughout history. He inhaled very quickly.

“I… there is no way I could accept money from you for something like this, Captain,” Peter explained helplessly, slightly touched at her consideration of his… shyness. “If you wanted something I painted, then I would be glad to provide it.”

“You know, that’s a terrible business practice, darling. What if I asked for another one? You can’t just give away these things for free.” Her lips curved with his agreement, and it was a sliver of crimson, both sweet and deceptively warm when she did.

“Fine. Let’s call it a wedding present then.” 

The hallway was empty of anyone else as she had desired for their conversation, but he had to wonder why she needed to accommodate him in the first place. The majority of the crew now knew about his hobby, and Vespa too would be added to that number as the gift would be for the Captain and their medic.

“A compromise. That sounds wonderful,” Now all he had to worry about... “I’m looking forward to seeing it.” ...was what he would be painting.

~

Something green, maybe. The two of them seemed fond of the colour at least. Vespa’s hair was that colour, and there was no way Buddy didn’t like the colour of her soon-to-be wife's  _ hair _ . What could he paint that was green, though? A plant? Peter imagined handing them a picture of a tree on their wedding day and disregarded the idea immediately.

He could paint about their history. What little he knew of it, anyway. There was more to the tale of Buddy and Vespa than even he knew, and more so to the fact that their tale was far from over. Maybe the exploits and crime would soon be in their past, but even then he didn’t have all the facts, did he? Nureyev didn’t know how they came to find each other again, not after twenty years absent from the criminal underbelly of society. 

He didn’t need to know everything to commemorate their life together, just paint them something to celebrate a future of it. 

There was a story of them Peter knew very well, and he couldn’t imagine it being too fraught with trauma that it would serve as an unwelcome reminder of their past. It was a bit sentimental, maybe a little sappy.

Peter reminded himself that sentiment like that was good, especially on a day all about it. Right, a chalice then. One of their more extraordinary heists that involved ownership of a small moon, a palace made of gold, and the chalice more precious than any of it. 

But, if this was something they already had, why would they want his inferior version of it?

Because Buddy had asked for it, he reminded himself. She was the kind of person who would smile no matter what he gave her, but more than that, he wanted to make something that would make her  _ happy _ . A reminder that the bad times did not always taint the good ones, or that just because good times existed in the past did not mean they would never come again. The past was full of heartbreak and joy, but the future had much more of it in store yet.

(Buddy Aurinko would smile when she saw the chalice he’d made, an item she had fond memories of from when she and Vespa were two much younger criminals. And it would not be a polite baring of thin, curved lips, but a beaming crescent of bright teeth and a face as radiant as the sun.)

~

After he finished his gift for the captain, it seemed… ungracious to leave a certain member of the crew out of the loop. Peter didn’t practice favouritism, but he did not consciously exclude those he was attempting to make nice with either. This was even more true when he had to live with them for months on end.

Jet Siquliak stared at the canvas Peter had handed him, looking at it like it was of an optical illusion rather than the Ruby 7, the only common ground between the two of them. Aside from the murder, but Peter thought Jet might resent that point if he were ever to bring it up.

“It’s… very nice,” he thanked him in a tone filled with the least amount of gratitude Peter had ever heard. “Thank you, Ransom. I will cherish this gift because of the effort and care you have put into it.” Or maybe that was just his voice.

“You’re welcome.”

Juno snorted, arms crossed against his chest, and hip against the counter. “Tell us what it is, Big Guy.”

He hesitated, and now Peter was certain that it was reluctance he saw. “Do not ask this of me.”

“What is it? C’mon, s’just a question.” Juno goaded and the tilt, the lean of his body was smug, like a physical smirk.

“I… believe my answer will make us both feel bad, so I must refrain.” His eyebrows furrowed together and Peter had to stifle a chuckle.

~

Juno had stopped at the wall of their room, standing just past the doorway instead of joining him in bed as Peter hoped he would. He was looking at his canvas, blotchy flowers and petals on their wall.

“Y’know, I like your paintings,” Juno must have been aware of his presence because as he drew closer, the lady wrapped his hand around Peter’s, linking their fingers together. “No matter what you think of them, I think they’re neat. All of them.”

He hummed noncommittally. Juno was right, he didn’t like all of them, but this one… was a little different. It had a more personal meaning, for him and the detective. He’d made it of the two of them, after all.

“Really,” A rush of gratefulness swept through at the easy affirmation, “every time I see one I think of you and  _ that _ makes me happy. It’s nice, seeing you everywhere.”

The open firmness of his statement left Nureyev winded. “Oh. That’s— I’m glad someone other than me likes them. I… 

“A lot more than someone, Nureyev,” the snort was unnecessary, “Many someones. The crew likes them too, I think. You’ve really made this place into a home.”

If there were ever anyone to make something into a home, Peter Nureyev, the man who had been without one for the past two decades and the better part of his life would not be that person. And yet, he couldn’t deny his paintings added something to the ship. A sense of clutter maybe, the comfort of being able to splay yourself and all your belongings across the space you most frequently inhabited.

It felt personal. More than it had been under any other alias, to have so many parts of him, things he cared about scattered across this place. Maybe that was what made a home, he wondered. The parts of yourself you used to build it.

He stared at his first painting, hanging there on his wall, Juno’s fingers slotted perfectly in his. Peter re-evaluated his previous statement.  _ A home was _ … he thought, the parts of yourself you left behind, and the people you loved within it.

And surprisingly, unpredictably, Peter found that he liked his first painting.

  
It was the kind of thing someone  _ with _ a home might own. Someone with something to come back to, and Peter realized that somehow, without his notice, he had edged his way into that territory. Someone with things to come back to— a home, a family, a life, and an ugly canvas of not-quite roses and dahlias on his wall.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been sitting on this for three weeks just in case I needed it for the tpp minibang (which I don't anymore,) but the new ep comes out for everyone in two days— SO. Publishing it now in case it gets screwed over
> 
> thank u for being so projectable Peter  
> Anyhoo, do art, do writing, do it cause u like it, and don't get discouraged, cause it is good, and it is good because you did it


End file.
